the bus driver

The grey-head stepped into the bus and approached the driver, a youth – in spaceman reflector shades,

‘you going here?’ he asked, and poked his finger at a map of Causeway Bay. Chinese map, this shouldn’t be a drama, but it is.

The man-in-space squirts a little air of disdain out of his nose, he doesn’t look down at where the finger points.

The grey-head retires to the roadside where a mechanic and the two wives wait. They discuss, decide, and one by one jangle bracelets, money and tickets, and swipe slots, while the spaceman sits in his chair, as still as a dead fish too fresh to smell.

The grey-head is last through, and he steps up a little close to the driver as he pays his way in, and says close to his ear. ‘ I know a bloke back home who was born without an arsehole, he could fucking use you.’